A/N: Hey! So, this is my Mortal Instruments story which I have been writing for the past 7 months or so for Wattpad. But, seeing as I haven't used my Fanfiction account in ages, I thought I would put it up here. I won't be updating consistantly but I will try to update at least twice a month. Tell me if you like it! And follow me on Wattpad for more chapters (NerdFighter_17)
"Clary!" A boy chasing after me screams. "Are you insane?!"
"Clary, you'll get yourself killed!" An Australian voice warns.
I giggle breathlessly, looking back over my shoulder at my four pursuers; I can't see their faces. My aching legs pick up the pace and I set my jaw in fierce determination. I can do this.
Suddenly, I stop. My previously blurred surroundings seem to wave for a moment before settling, and I am staring fixedly into a dark alleyway. I squint into the darkness; some part of me tensing for something but I can't see what.
"Clary!" A girl this time. I turn to my left towards the voice, hoping to place the person with a name; her voice sounds strangely familiar, like an echo. But just as I turn my head, long waves of curly red hair obscure my vision and I impatiently push it back with a black marked hand – marks like the white scars that adorn my skin. But the dark haired girl edges slowly towards the dark alley before I can see her face. What have I lured these people into? Something is definitely not right with whatever's in that alley.
I hear heavy footfalls slamming against the concrete, and I whip around. Three tall boys – about my age – stop next to me and for some reason, relief washes through me. Like the girl, a wall seems to be blocking me from seeing their faces and this annoys me. All I can tell is one has dark hair, one has brown and the other is blond. My heart rate quickens as I stare at the latter.
A scream pierces the air as a menacing shape hurtles itself out of the shadows of the alleyway, taking down the girl. The boys shout something; her name presumably but I can't make out their voices over the screams of the girl and the viscous snarls of the monster. On instinct, I step forward and reach for an object fastened to my hip. But I stop myself.
I don't know her, why should I save her? But somewhere- something deep inside of me, screams at me to help the girl. In my dream, I know what to do. Something sparks in me. A fierce yearning to destroy that monster. To end the life of those who threaten my friends. Because that's what they are.
The dark haired boy who I can count on no matter what. The dark haired girl who is my best friend in the whole world. The brown haired boy who is like a brother to me. And the blond boy; the only boy I've ever loved. I know this much. But I've only ever seen them in my dreams; never even heard their names. Something blocks me from seeing their faces, as if one glance into their eyes will bring forbidden information to light.
The blond turns to me; golden eyes burning into mine. And the name comes to me. A whisper so quiet I have to strain to hear it but I do. It's a familiar name. A name that settle's comfortably on my heart that is hammering heavily in my chest. I mime the name – cautiously testing the winds. More confident, I whisper:
"Jace." And then I sink my sword – no, seraph blade - into the side of the ... demon, tortured wails ripping through the night air.
I sit up in bed, the demon's wails still ringing in my ears. My breathing comes in quick gasps and my hands are fisting my dark green covers so tightly, my knuckles are white. My eyes slowly adjust to the darkness of my room and I blink the sleep out of my eyes, trying to steady my breathing. Jace.
I have been having the dreams for the past few months; just flashes of people and places. But that dream was the most vivid, the most startlingly real. They seem to appear in my dreams whenever I'm in trouble and I always know I can trust them, but never have I heard their names.
Jace. Of course that is his name. His face flashes in front of my eyes in the dark room, the first time I've ever actually seen his face. He has an angular face, beautiful, framed with fine, curly, golden blonde hair. He has tawny eyes; the deepest of honeys with an unforgotten past hidden in the darker pits of his pupils. He's so beautiful, he doesn't seem real, but I know he is. No one could be this vivid in a mind for so long. I must have met him before
"I'm going out!" I scream up the stairs, pulling on my jacket and doing the laces up on my boots. "I'll be back before seven!" Turning to the door, I swing my bag across my shoulder and stuff my keys in my jean pocket.
"Clary, wait," My mother appears on the stairs, a dripping paintbrush in her hand; her dark red hair threatening to fall out of a bun that rests on the nape of her neck. "You can't go." I blink up at her.
"Why? Simon – I've already told him I'd go with him to Java Jones," I stare up at her, my hand resting hopefully on the brass door handle. My mother sighs and runs her hand through her hair. I notice the white marks similar to my own decorate her hands but I refrain from commenting on them now.
"Clary, we're going to the farm house this evening. Luke is arriving in an hour." An outraged cry escapes my lips and I childishly stamp my foot.
"Mom, I paid for all those art classes. You can't just take me away from the city whenever you feel like it," I complain. My slight British accent seeps through as I whine; I had been brought up in England but moved to New York when I was twelve. I can't remember anything of the place as there are no photos or videos; just an accent I had acquired whilst I had been living there but it had faded more over the last four years.
"I'm sorry, Clary. I know how long you saved up. I know what it meant to you."
"No, you don't. If you did you wouldn't drag me away just to spend a week in some run down shack in the middle of nowhere." I drag a hand through my hair like my mother does when she's stressed. "I'm not a kid anymore, Mom. You can't protect me forever." I pull the door open and turn back to her. "I'll be back by seven." I whisper before stepping out into the hall.
"I know I can't protect you forever, Clary. That's what I'm afraid of." I hear her say before I slam the door.
Simon stares at me with obvious concern as I sit with my head in my hand, absently tracing patterns on to the chipped, tea stained table. Eric drones on in the background; my ears prickling at the squealing feedback from the microphone.
"Clary!" Simon shouts and my head snaps up in alarm.
"What?"
"You were completely out of it." I sigh and sink back in my chair, bringing my mug to my lips and sipping the cold coffee. I study the white marks that litter my hands. They stretch over my arms and over my back and shoulders too; even delicately wrapping around my stomach and up the back of my neck. My mother told me I had burnt myself badly when I was younger; when I had made my own bath at the age of six early in the morning when she had been sleeping, and jumped in without hesitation, burning myself all over. But now at the age of fifteen, the story seemed so ridiculous I didn't dare question my mother's story, scared she would get upset. The marks were too pretty and deliberate to have been burns, and anyway, didn't she have them too? Didn't the three people in my dreams have black patterns painting their skin?
"Clary, come on. I know you had a fight with your mom, but it's hardly anything new is it? I mean," He explains, eyes widening at the glare I shoot him. "She's always been a bit overprotective of you and, come on, you're fifteen, what did she expect? You've got to get out and have fun sometimes," I look around the crowded room, my eyes resting on Eric who has started a new poem about a guy and a girl who fall in love but the girl's parents take her away, blah blah blah.
"Fun? You call this fun?" Simon rolls his eyes and takes his glasses off of his nose; reaching for his shirt and starting to clean the lenses with the worn material.
"He's not that bad," He half-heartedly defends his friend. I raise my eyebrows.
"Yeah, and you're not the worst liar in the world." Simon guffaws silently, shaking his head with a small smile. "What's the time?" He places his glasses back on his nose clumsily and looks down at his watch.
"6," He replies as I reach across the table to adjust his glasses which are slipping down his nose. Simon blinks rapidly in surprise; flushing a light pink as my fingers brush his cheek. I internally giggle at his bashfulness.
"Thanks," I rock back on to the precarious legs of my chair and wrap my fingers against the table for support. "I want to go." Simon groans.
"Clary, I can't just leave halfway through Eric's performance," He says resolutely and I pout.
"Please?" He shakes his head, crossing his arms across his chest and biting his lip. "Pretty please?" I bat my eyelashes. I can literally see any resolve melt from him. Simon sighs and throws his head back so the dim light above reflects in his glasses.
"Fine." I grin, but my eyes are drawn to just above Simon's shoulder. The front legs of my chair fall to the ground with a loud crash. There in the corner of the room, underneath the Special Meals board, is a girl. She's looks to be about eighteen with long mahogany hair and a slightly green tinge to her skin, but most noticeably, bright green eyes. There are no whites of her eyes, just the same startling lime green. I look towards Simon, trying to catch his eye but he's staring intently at the menu board above the girl's head. We both stand up and pull on our jackets.
"Simon, look at her," I whisper, nudging him with my elbow and incline my head toward the girl. Simon stares blankly at the corner and frowns.
"There's no one there, Clary," I look up at his face, sure he isn't looking in the right direction but sure enough, he is staring right into the apparently empty corner. I shake my head. Think up something or he'll think you're going crazy.
"No, Simon," I sigh dramatically, pushing his chin to the right a little so he's looking at a relatively pretty girl; her head buried in a comic. "Your type of girl?" Simon flushes and stares down at me with incredulous eyes.
"Are you kidding me?" He says. "You're trying to match-make me now?" I chuckle, sifting through my bag for my phone and turning it on. My Mom has tried calling me three times.
"Fine, fine. I thought Eric had been trying to set you up with someone, that's all. Doesn't everyone else in the band have a girlfriend?" Simon purses his lips.
"Yeah, but I'm waiting for someone," He mutters and I raise my eyebrows.
"Oh, are you now? This is the first I've heard of this." My eyes flicker to the girl. "Come on, who is she?"
Simon doesn't respond. "It is a she, right?" He shoots me a horrified glare.
"YES!" He cries and I burst out laughing; throwing my head back. "You know what, I think I'll stay. You go home if you want," He looks at me for a second, as if deliberating something, before smiling slightly and disappearing into the tight crowd. I almost go after him, scared I've offended him, but I decide against it.
My gaze returns to the girl in the corner who grins back at me. She beckons me over and for a moment, the rational part of me hesitates. I don't know this girl yet it seems like she knows me. It also seems I'm the only one who can actually see her. But something seems so intriguing and familiar about her. With a deep breath, I walk cautiously over to the menu board.
"Clary Fairchild," The girl says almost teasingly, in a thick British accent. She smirks, examining me over the top of her clasped green tinged hands. I shudder involuntarily and pretend to be reading the Menu board. "It's been a while. I must say you grew into quite a pretty little thing."A flush of anger runs through me at being called 'little' however, I know it's true: I only stand at 5"2.
"Fray," I correct her out the corner of my mouth. The girl raises a dark eyebrow.
"Fray?" She frowns and tilts her head."Clary Fray?"
"How do you know my name?"
"Wha- I mean, it's been a while, Clary, but I thought-"She looks me over with her lime green eyes. "It's me, Indie; don't you recognise me, Clary?" I look down at her with wide eyes.
"Should I?" Indie looks back at me, startled and upset.
"Clary, w-what happened?" I resist the urge to cry out with frustration. What's happening to me?
"What happened? I'm not sure! One second, I'm just a normal girl and the next I'm seeing people with marks like my scars, running around chasing monsters and a girl who knows my name yet I don't know who in the world she is!" I keep my voice hushed, not wanting anyone to overhear but when the girl lets out a sob, I look around the busy cafe, in fear that she was heard.
"Clary," She whispers, horrified. "Clary, have your memories been wiped?" My body freezes, images flooding into my mind with a powerful surge. I fall into a chair at her table; placing my head in my hands as a tall Asian man with yellow, cat like eyes enters my head. I hear murmured voices, and can easily pick out my mother's from the chaos but there are men's voices too – the hushed outrage of a man with a normally calming tone. Luke.
I can see blinding colours; reds, greens, blues and purples, all flashing behind my eyelids like fireworks. My mother half dragging a thirteen year old me down a street as she assures me I didn't see a fairy, I'm just being silly. My mother watching me quietly as I examine my scars; recreating the patterns on a piece of paper. I see the man again – a cat sitting in my lap as I read one of my comics.
"Clary," I hear my mother say. I look up at her. My hair comes to my jaw and I think I must be about fourteen.
"Yes?"
"Come in the kitchen a second, Sweetie," I obey – walking into the kitchen and smiling at the man in whose house I am in.
"Magnus, what do you-?" And then a flash of blinding blue light, and then darkness.
I hear Simon's voice booming from across the room. I'm too overwhelmed to say anything, staring at the table in confusion and shock.
"Clary?" Indie asks and she leans forward. "Do the Lightwood's know you're in the city?"
"Who are the Lightwood's?" I ask faintly as I look up at her through my eyelashes. Indie looks like she is about to cry.
"Jace, I-"
"Jace?" I ask suddenly? "You know someone called Jace?" Indie nods feverishly, desperately grasping at anything I remember.
"Jace Lightwood. Wayland." Indie's mouth twitches. "Whatever."
"Is he blond?"
"Yeah."
"Gold eyes?"
"Yep."
"Black marks on his skin?"
"Yeah, well, they're not always black. When he's not fighting they're white –"
"Like mine?" I demand and look her directly in her lime green eyes.
"Yes, like yours." She looks at me, worried. "Clary, I need to speak to your mum, okay?" My stomach contracts.
"Why?"
"Clary, you've had your mind wiped. You have memories locked inside of your head which you need to unlock. You need to remember who you are." I gulp.
"I'm Clary Fray. I'm fifteen years old, sixteen in a week. My mother's called Jocelyn Fray. My best friend is called Simon Lewis. I draw." I hesitate. "Okay, I draw a lot. I'm your typical teenage girl. I don't have this crazy life that I don't know about." Indie drags a hand across her face in exhaustion.
"You're Clary Fairchild or Morgenstern. You're fifteen years old, sixteen on the 17th of August. Your mother's called Jocelyn Fairchild. Your best friend was Isabelle Lightwood. You draw a lot. You're not a typical teenage girl." Isabelle? Wait...
"What am I then?" I snap, glaring at Indie.
"A Shadowhunter. " My head seems fit to burst; memories flooding through carefully placed barriers. Memories of people. Memories of places. Memories of me.
"Oh." I whisper.
Please review! Thank you.